


When Your Arms Are Too Weary

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, College, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What,” Foggy says.</p><p>His parents exchange glances.  “You’re an angel.  Literally,” his mother says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Your Arms Are Too Weary

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be a fic - I already _have_ a demon AU! _and_ a forced cohabitation AU! _and_ an initially non-romantic marriage fic! - but it wouldn't let go of me, so.
> 
> Title is from "The Impossible Dream" from _Man of La Mancha_ , because, well, because that song has the line "To be willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause," and because Matt's generally very "Hey, tilting at windmills, sounds like a great plan!"
> 
> Mild TW for oblique passing references to campus sexual assault and some general description of hazing.

_May_

“What,” Foggy says.

His parents exchange glances. “You’re an angel. Literally,” his mother says.

“Yeah, no, I heard you the first time, I just.” Foggy shakes his head. “What. You.” He rakes his hair back with one hand. “Are you feeling okay? Is there a gas leak in here?”

“We know how it sounds,” his dad says. Foggy lets out a weak laugh, fingers still knotted into his hair as if by holding onto it he can hold onto his parents’ sanity. “We wouldn’t have believed it at first if we hadn’t...well, if you were old enough to remember the archangel you’d understand.”

“I don’t…” Maybe he can reason them into dropping this delusion. He wants to be a lawyer, right? “How can I be an angel? You gave birth to me, Mom! We have pictures of the day you guys brought me home from the hospital!”

His mom nods. “The archangel appeared to us in the hospital before we left. He...she...it? I don’t know.” She looks at Foggy’s dad, who shrugs. “It told us that _arch_ angels were made at the Creation, but ordinary angels and demons are chosen at birth to...represent Heaven and Hell on Earth? And that it’s not so much good versus evil as, as, different understandings of the meaning of life? I didn’t really get it all, there was a lot of divine effulgence and I was still pretty loopy on painkillers.”

Foggy’s dad nods. “You’re mortal, son, at least as far as we understand it. Just...also an angel.”

“Okay. Okay.” Foggy hopes he sounds calm. This is fine. He can handle this. He’s leaving for college in four months and his parents have gone off the deep end, but he’ll just Google “what do you do when your parents suddenly start sharing delusions” and then he’ll breathe into a paper bag for a while and it’ll be _fine_. “Well, thank you for telling me! Why don’t you two go lie down, and I’ll just, uh…” Hide every sharp object in the apartment.

His mom reaches out and pats his hand. Foggy forces himself not to flinch and then feels guilty for having to force it. “Don’t worry, sweetie. The archangel said it would come to you when you were eighteen. You’ll understand then.”

“I’m eighteen now.” Happy birthday to him.

“Not for another…” She checks her watch. “Two minutes.” Her smile is suddenly misty. “We’re so proud of you, sweetheart. It’ll be so beautiful, you’ll see.”

“And don’t worry,” his dad adds, suddenly very intense. “This may not be about ‘good’ and ‘evil’ as we understand it, but _you are good_. You’re such a good boy - a good _man_. Whatever...whatever _happens_ , whatever you have to do, you will always be a good man.”

Foggy squints at him. “What do you mean, what I have to do? What am I going to have to do?”

“And I’m sure that the demon is going to be...you know, not what all the books and movies say. Just a nice young person. Like you are,” his mother adds. “It’ll all be fine. The archangel said it’ll all be fine.”

“The...what _demon?_ ” Foggy asks. “What - ”

 _\- he is suffused in light, soft and gold, and he is floating and the air is sweet. A voice speaks to him and he feels Truth ring in his bones and he knows what he_ Is _. There is a song too beautiful to hear and a face too beautiful to see and the world is so very precious and rare -_

Foggy blinks away tears. So _that’s_ what divine effulgence is.

“I, uh.” His voice sounds too ordinary, too flat. There’s no denying it anymore, not after… _that_. “I’m an angel.”

His mother kisses his forehead.

“I’m.” Foggy stands up. “I’m going to go think about this for a few minutes.”

He walks for three hours.

He comes home.

He asks his mother, “So what were you saying about a demon?”

And that’s how he finds out about the arranged marriage. 

*

He dreams. In his dreams there is this understanding:

There was nothing, and then there were the Powers. There was the world, and then there was life, and then there were humans.

And then there was a schism.

Some of the Powers felt that humans, who could do evil beyond even the Powers’ imagining, should be punished, to guide them towards what was right and proper. Some of the Powers felt that humans, who could do good beyond even the Powers’ hopes, should be shown mercy, to steer them away from what was unjust and cruel.

And so there was Heaven and Hell.

Because the Powers could not wage this battle without destroying their creation, they chose mortals to Elevate, to wage it for them - a few every generation, no more. But mortals had a tendency to misinterpret the Powers, to argue their causes with coercion and bloodshed. So the Powers instituted a tradition to remind Elevated mortals that they were fighting towards the same goal. In every generation, they chose one mortal from each side, to be bonded for life and after.

Eventually the mortals, as mortals did, came up with a word for it:

Marriage.

*

_August_

Foggy is left to wait in a small antechamber. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do - he feels like he’s supposed to be preparing himself, meditating or something, but he doesn’t really know _how_ to meditate, so instead he stands around and fiddles with the cuffs of his dress shirt. He’s just wearing nice slacks and a tie, with his hair pulled back, which feels far too informal, but then, what would the Powers care about wedding attire?

Wedding. Ha. It’s a “bonding ritual” with a stranger conducted in a dusty offshoot of City Hall, down a corridor so deserted Foggy’s not sure the city officials who work here even know it’s there. It’s a little weird that they need a civil ceremony to go with the ritualistic one, but Foggy supposed since they _are_ still fleshy mortals, the Powers wanted to make sure they were tied by all their petty little human connections as well as a cosmic one.

Well, whatever. Maybe he and the demon can work something out, some kind of open relationship. He doesn’t want to give up entirely on dating in college. Or for the rest of his life.

And hey, maybe it'll be like one of those romance novels his little sister Candace is always devouring, where the rakish duke and the gently-bred but spirited young lady are forced into matrimony by circumstances beyond their control and wind up falling in love after having lots of crazy sex. Foggy likes the idea of falling in love, and he _definitely_ likes the idea of crazy sex. Plus he's drunkenly made out with Brett Mahoney at enough parties to be pretty sure he's bi, so that basically doubles his chances of this marriage working out really well for him.

Or.

Or he could have misinterpreted the dreams entirely and this demon could be truly evil, could be a monster that Foggy will be tied to for the rest of his life, and there’ll be nothing he can do about it.

He wishes his parents had been allowed to come.

The door opens, and the demon walks in.

Foggy’s mouth goes dry, even as his pulse thunders in his ears. Despite knowing better, he was half expecting a horned, cackling monster, but the young man standing in front of him looks like a totally ordinary human being, except for two things:

1\. He is wearing sunglasses indoors, which at first Foggy thinks is because he is either a douchebag or possessed of terrifying fire-eyes until he spots the white cane and realizes, _duh, blind_ , and

2\. He is _outrageously_ hot.

Foggy’s not sure whether it’s the hotness or the fact that this is his _future demon husband_ that is locking his throat, but he can’t speak. The demon winces, and takes the lead.

“I’m Matt,” he says, and Foggy wants to laugh, because it’s such a _normal_ name.

“Foggy. I’m Foggy,” he manages.

Matt gives a short, tense nod. “Okay,” he says, and then, “Don’t worry. I’m never going to touch you.”

Before Foggy can even _begin_ to process that, the door on the other side of the antechamber opens. The door to the chapel.

It’s time.

*

Matt is true to his word. He doesn’t take Foggy’s arm during the ceremony or kiss him at the end - which, to be fair, none of the three incongruously nondescript bureaucrats officiating ask him to do, there’s just a lot of pricking their fingers and leaving bloody thumbprints on a golden scroll while repeating stuff Foggy doesn’t understand in Latin. They share an actual _goblet_ of wine - but no cake, Foggy is dismayed to learn - and then Matt mutters “I’ll see you at the dorm” and sort of skulks off into the darkness. Foggy goes back to his parents and tells them it’s done, and that’s...that’s it, Foggy’s kept up his part of the truce between Heaven and Hell and married one of the netherworld’s emissaries.

Now all he has to do is spend the rest of his life with someone who no-homo’ed Foggy so hard he fled out the door the first chance he got.

Cool.

* 

_September_

The Powers have arranged for Matt and Foggy to share a dorm room at Columbia - which is kind of funny, actually, the idea of the forces that created the universe fiddling with freshman housing assignments. It makes sense, he supposes. The way Foggy understands it - and he’s never sure he understands _anything_ in those dreams - the cohabitation is kind of the big one as far as this marriage is concerned. The Powers seem to be into proximity, mostly. No one’s said anything about further rituals, or responsibilities, or outside relationships.

Or consummation.

Foggy doesn’t think too hard about the coincidence of him and Matt both attending Columbia. He doesn’t like to think that he didn’t get into his dream school under his own steam, and he _really_ doesn’t like to think that it might only be his dream school because it was convenient for the Powers. Maybe it’s just a sign that he and Matt are well-suited to each other - similar tastes, well-matched intellectual ambition, that sort of thing. Maybe it means they’ll get along really well, which would be great, of course.

Maybe Foggy’s been thinking guiltily about that whole non-mandatory consummation aspect since he saw how good-looking Matt is.

Foggy’s parents help him bring all his shit uptown and dump it in the empty dorm room, then take him out for lunch at this awesome Korean place near campus. Foggy can already tell their dumplings will be the death of him.

When he kisses his folks goodbye and lets himself back into his room, Matt is there. Foggy’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Sorry,” Matt says, even though literally all he’s doing is putting a book on the shelf over his desk.

“Nothing to be sorry for, man,” Foggy says, and then, “Oh, it’s, uh, it’s Foggy. Your…” _Husband_. “...roommate.”

“I know,” Matt says, and then makes a face Foggy can’t interpret.

“How did you...oh, right, who else would have a key.” Foggy steps in and closes the door behind him. “I’m sorry we missed you, you could’ve come to lunch with us. My parents would’ve loved to get to know you.”

Matt’s ears go a little pink. “Oh, that’s...that’s okay.”

“Are yours still here?”

From Matt’s expression, it’s the wrong thing to say. “No, they. They’re not.”

“Oh.”

Matt looks like he’s wrestling with something, hand tight on the book he hasn’t let go of yet. “They’re dead.”

“Shit. I mean, I’m sorry.” Foggy’s an idiot. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” Matt says quickly. “I mean, it’s not, but you didn’t know. And it. It was a long time ago.”

Foggy nods, then catches himself and says, “I just nodded.” He wants to say more, like how terrible that is, and who raised Matt if his parents died a long time ago, and at least Matt has in-laws now, but he doesn’t think any of that will go over well. He needs to change the subject. “Sorry my boxes are everywhere. Did you just get here? Do you have more stuff coming?” There’s a sedate navy bedspread on Matt’s bed and a laptop and a couple of gadgets Foggy doesn’t recognize on his desk, but that’s it.

“No,” and now Matt looks confused and a little embarrassed. “I’m pretty much unpacked.”

Unpacked. Five books and a blanket and he’s unpacked. “That’s cool,” Foggy says, a little too fast. “I probably brought way too much stuff. I mean, not like we’re rich or anything, we’re not, I’m gonna be in debt up to my eyeballs when we graduate, but I have a ton of crap here. But hey, what’s mine is yours, right? The crap, I mean, not the debt. Although that too. I guess we didn’t sign a prenup, huh?”

Matt’s face shutters completely at that. He puts the book he’s holding down on the shelf. “No,” he says, voice flat. “I guess we didn’t.”

Yeah. Foggy is an _idiot_.

*

Matt is pretty clearly trying to keep to himself, and Foggy respects that, he does.

The problem is, they’re both planning to declare Political Science majors as a precursor to law school - another weird coincidence Foggy’s not going to look too closely at - so they wind up in the same section of Political Theory 101. And Intro to American Government. Which means that there’s only one section of the Comp Lit course all freshmen are required to take that they can both fit into their schedule. If they weren’t taking different languages, they’d have identical schedules.

It just seems silly to wake up together and walk separately to the same lecture hall. Besides which…

“Don’t you want to get breakfast?” Foggy asks as he shoves his Poli Sci textbook into his bag.

“I’ll grab something on the way to class,” Matt says unconvincingly.

Foggy frowns. Matt’s already dressed and hunched over his computer with his fingers on the refreshable Braille display and an earbud in, so it’s not like he’s trying to sleep as late as possible before class. But Foggy’s rarely seen him eat, and never in the dining hall.

“Do you want me to pick something up for you?” he asks.

Now Matt looks up, though not really _at_ Foggy, and he looks genuinely startled. “Why?”

“Uh, because breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I don’t want you fainting away in class?” Foggy says, trying for a jovial tone. “You gotta eat, buddy. I’m not totally sure how the demon thing works but the angel thing definitely doesn’t give me the power to skip meals.” He pauses. “You… _do_ eat regular food, right? I saw you eating an apple the other day, although maybe that was just for the symbolism.”

Something like a laugh escapes from Matt before he can stop himself, and Foggy wants to punch the air in triumph. “No. For the vitamin C.”

There’s a brief beat, an awkward half-step of silence before Matt says, “You really don’t have to get me anything,” at the same time Foggy says, “Come with me.”

Matt’s ears go red. “I don’t want to impose.”

Might as well call out the elephant in the room, if he’s gonna sit there all gray and humongous like that. “We’re _married_ ,” Foggy says. “Presumably for life, it didn’t sound like divorce was on the table. Having breakfast with you for fifteen minutes is not an imposition.” He shrugs one shoulder. Matt might be touchy about this, and probably a little homophobic, but… “Besides, it’d be nice to get to know you. I’m not saying this is going to be a love for the ages or anything, but we might as well be friends, don’t you think?”

Matt makes the same strange, crumply face he made when Foggy called him “buddy,” as if he can’t figure out what the right expression would be. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Foggy’s just about to backpedal and flee when Matt takes the earbud out.

“Breakfast...would be nice,” he says.

And for a split second Foggy’s selfishly glad that Matt can’t see his smile, because he knows it’s inappropriately wide. “Cool.”

*

_October_

It’s after the third time Professor Hannigan “forgets” to provide Matt with handouts he can actually use that it happens.

“I’m sorry, professor, but I can’t use this,” Matt says tightly, holding out the packet Hannigan handed out - mostly in his own chicken scratch handwriting, and photocopied so many times it’s barely legible to _Foggy_ , let alone a text-to-speech scanner.

“I have a hundred students in this lecture, Murdock, and two other sections,” Hannigan says. “I don’t have time to rework all of my teaching materials for one student.”

Foggy watches Matt’s hand tighten on his cane. “University regulations state that…”

“I know perfectly well what the regulations are, young man. I didn’t get tenure overnight.” Hannigan jerks his head at Foggy. “Have Nelson read them to you. Not that I want him wasting his time coddling you, but if it’ll get you off my back so that I can teach the students who will actually…”

“Actually what?” Matt says. His voice is very calm, which is impressive, because _Foggy_ kind of wants to sock Hannigan in his stupid face, and he’s not the one being insulted.

“Nothing,” Hannigan says. “Help him take a seat, Nelson. You two have disrupted the lecture enough.”

Foggy swears he can _hear_ Matt’s teeth grinding. “Thanks, Foggy, that won’t be necessary,” he says, and storms back up the aisle. Foggy blinks for a second, thunderstruck, then follows him, ignoring the gossip from the students around them. Ditching class to follow Matt will look bad to Hannigan, but right now Foggy doesn’t care if that fucker fails him for it.

Matt’s moving so fast Foggy practically has to run to keep up with him. He must be used to these halls, because he’s barely using his cane.

“Matt!” Foggy calls. “Matt, wait up!”

If anything, Matt moves faster at that, booking it to the men’s room. Foggy pauses for a split second, then slips in after him. Matt’s still a pretty private person, even if they have gotten a little friendlier over the past couple of weeks, but Foggy doesn’t want to leave him alone when he’s this visibly upset.

He closes the door behind him. Matt’s facing away, shoulders hunched. “Matt, are you - ”

_PHWOOM!_

Crimson light flares out from around Matt in a concussive blast. There’s an explosion of heat, a crackle like a roaring fire, and the scent of sulfur fills the air. “GET OUT!”

Foggy staggers back against the door. “Matt? Matt, what…?”

Matt turns around.

But it’s not Matt.

It’s a demon.

“Holy shit,” Foggy breathes, completely unironically. The creature in front of him has Matt’s face, but he also has red horns twisting up from his temples, and a red, forked tail lashing out from behind his back. He’s taken his glasses off, and his eyes are black and bottomless.

“...Matt?”

“What are you staring at?” Matt snarls. “You know what I am.”

“I...I don’t…” What _is_ this? Matt’s always looked human… _Foggy’s_ always looked human, Foggy’s an angel but he’s never transformed like this, what does this mean, what is Matt going to do?

“Don’t,” Matt says. “Do you get it now? I am a _demon_. I’m not some poor lost blind prodigy, I’m, I’m this _thing_. I’m evil and I’m damned, so stop feeling _sorry_ for me and just stay away before I drag you down too!”

Foggy blinks. “I don’t feel _sorry_ for you.”

Matt cocks his head. “What?”

“Well, okay, sometimes I...I _worry_ about you,” Foggy admits, because honesty is important. “But dude, you’re like, mega-hot and a genius and every girl on campus is half in love with you. Why would I feel sorry for you?”

Matt’s mouth actually hangs open. “I’m a _demon_ ,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s pretty obvious,” Foggy says. “So?”

“‘So?’ So I’m an _emissary of Satan_ , Foggy, that’s - ” Matt’s head snaps up. “Someone’s coming.”

Foggy’s not sure how Matt knows that but he doesn’t have time to second guess him. They can’t let anyone see Matt like this. “Shit. C’mere.” He grabs Matt by the biceps - whoa, _firm_ \- and pushes him into the nearest stall, then locks the door behind him.

Sure enough, a split second later he hears the door to the bathroom swing open and the squeak of sneakers on the linoleum. “Jeez, it stinks in here,” a voice says. There’s a beat, and then, “Are there _two_ of you in that stall? Dudes!”

“It’s okay, we’re married!” Foggy calls back.

“Whatever, keep it in your pants in public. I’m using a different bathroom.” The door swings open and shut again.

Foggy looks at Matt. He hasn’t moved since Foggy locked the door, just stayed impossibly still under the hand Foggy’s still got wrapped around his arm. “You okay?”

“You’re. You’re touching me,” Matt says.

He doesn’t sound mad as much as _confused_ , but Foggy whips his hand away anyway, just in case. It’s not cool to touch people without permission when you’re not saving them from themselves. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t...didn’t mean to…”

And then Matt is laughing, loud and helpless, and before Foggy’s eyes he’s melting back into his own familiar self, no horns or tail to speak of. Foggy watches, torn between amusement and concern, as Matt laughs until he _cries_.

It’s kind of beautiful.

When Matt’s done, he sags against the stall divider, wiping tears away. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks,” he says. He digs out the glasses that he’d tucked into his pocket and slips them on, then angles a crooked smile at Foggy. Foggy’s heart thumps hard in his chest. “Hey. You want to ditch the rest of this class?”

*

“I found out I was a demon when I was ten,” Matt says.

They’re sitting cross-legged on Foggy’s bed, two-thirds into a shared bottle of bourbon that they’ve been passing back and forth since the sun went down. Foggy may not feel sorry for Matt, but many people do - including the guy at the bodega who clearly felt too guilty to card the blind kid. Matt can work it when he wants.

Foggy takes a swig and passes it back. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be told until we were eighteen?” he says. “At least, that’s what my parents said.”

Matt nods. “My dad never told me, and I don’t think the nuns knew.” He’d already told Foggy about his dad’s murder, about never knowing his mom, after the first few swigs from the bottle. Foggy was pretty sure only his being an angel had given him the superhuman ability to resist hugging Matt after that.

“So how…?”

“There was...this man,” Matt says, then makes a face. “Well, this demon. You know there’s a few every generation. Of course, he was a couple generations older. His name was Stick. _Is_ Stick.”

“Stick,” Foggy repeats, skeptical. Although he’s sitting next to a guy who sprouted a tail a few hours ago, so a weird name is hardly outside of the realm of possibility.

“It probably wasn’t his real name. I don’t know.” Matt takes a gulp of bourbon but hangs on to the bottle. From the expression on his face, he’s gonna need it again. “He was blind, too.”

Foggy frowns. “Is that a demon thing?”

“I don’t know. I don’t…” Matt grips the bottle so tight Foggy’s a little afraid he’s going to break it, or at least spill. “I thought, then, that he came with answers, but really he just left me with more questions, so many questions.”

Foggy risks touching Matt’s knee, just the lightest brush of his fingertips. Matt’s expression eases slightly.

“He helped me cope with my...with losing my sight,” Matt says. “He taught me a lot. How to get around in the world, how to…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, he was the one who told me. I guess he could sense it on me. I’ve never sensed it on anyone else, not until you, but then, we’re pretty rare.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says slowly. He didn’t _sense_ anything different about Matt when they met except mega-hotness. Is it only a demon thing?

“It was...a lot,” Matt says. “I was raised Catholic, I always believed...I _still_ believe. I want to serve God, to do good, but...Stick knew. He manifested, and even though I couldn’t _see_ it, I could smell the sulfur, I could sense - _feel_ his horns. I believed everything he said. I believed it was in me.” He takes another swig from the bottle and passes it back to Foggy. “I cried when it sank in. He didn’t like that. He left the next day.”

Foggy stares. “...What an _asshole_.”

Matt’s face crumples a bit and for a moment Foggy thinks he might cry. Then he laughs, and it’s not quite the semi-hysterical laughter of earlier, but it’s close. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, he was.”

Foggy takes a drink because he’s not sure what else to do. “So…” he says after a pause. “Manifesting? Is that what that’s called? When you…” He can’t help snickering. “When you got all horny?”

Matt manages to look disapproving for four whole seconds. “Yeah,” he says. “It happens when I get really angry, or when something’s...when something’s really unfair, or _unjust_ , or I just…” He licks his lips. “When someone needs help.”

“That makes sense,” Foggy says. “You have the dreams, right?”

Matt pauses, then nods.

“I don’t know. They’re weird,” Foggy says. “I don’t always know that I understand them, totally, when I wake up. But I think...I mean, if I’m getting it right, then demons are supposed to be forces of justice and retribution. And angels are...protection and mercy. I _think_. Maybe I’ve just never felt merciful enough.” He’s a little jealous, actually. Why doesn’t _he_ get cool shapeshifting abilities?

“...Maybe you don’t have something terrible inside you,” Matt says, very quietly.

Foggy’s heart breaks for him. It was hard enough to wrap his head around being an angel - how much worse was it for Matt, to believe in God so fervently, and to be told by some weird old man that he was a _demon_ , and not even have parents or fucking _eyesight_ to help him cope with it?

“You don’t seem terrible to me,” he says. “And hey, I mean...look, I’m an angel, fine, but I’m not one hundred percent good. Not even ninety-nine. Sixty-forty, maybe?” Matt snorts, but Foggy keeps going. “I think...I mean, in the dreams, that is, it doesn’t seem like it’s about good and evil, just...just different approaches. But hey, even if I’m wrong and it _is_ about good and evil, I figure that means you’re at least forty percent good. That sounds like a lot of good to me, buddy.”

He puts his hand on Matt’s knee again, because fuck it, he’s drunk and the guy looks like the last puppy in a pet store’s going out of business sale. He needs a little comfort.

Matt goes still for a minute. Then he gives Foggy the saddest, wobbliest smile ever, and puts his hand over Foggy’s.

“Maybe,” he says. “I guess it’ll do.”

*

Things with Matt are better after that, even if he only laughs when Foggy tries to manifest.

“I don’t even know what _muscles_ to flex!” Foggy complains, pressing his shoulder blades together. He doesn’t know how angels manifest, but it’s gotta be wings, right?

“Try being more merciful?” Matt suggests. He doesn’t turn his head from where it’s pointed vaguely towards his book, but he’s definitely smiling.

“Listen, bucko, I’m being plenty merciful right now by putting up with your mockery.”

“And I appreciate that.”

It still isn’t what Foggy would’ve chosen, but life with Matt is turning out to be pretty okay.

*

_November_

There’s a rash of muggings around campus, which is weird and scary because it’s a pretty safe neighborhood and there’s Columbia security everywhere. So many, in fact, that the rumor is that it’s a whole bunch of guys, maybe a frat initiation.

Then some girl says she was almost mugged, but was rescued by a man wearing all black, and a _mask_ , like this is _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ or something. There’s a whole interview with her in the Columbia _Spectator_ , which is probably a bad thing because all of a sudden other people are coming forward, saying they were saved by a guy in a mask too.

It’s ridiculous. Foggy says as much when he reads the articles to Matt, scoffing at the very idea. Matt just hums noncommittally and drinks his coffee.

*

_December_

Foggy adjusts his backpack, then slings his duffel bag over his shoulder. “So...I’m gonna go, then.”

“Okay,” Matt says, and continues folding the clean clothes he just brought in from the laundry room, tracing the edge of each article of clothing before making a crisp series of folds in it. Foggy’s impressed by his meticulousness - he always just crams his clean clothes in whatever drawer has the most room.

Matt doesn’t look sad, or lonely, or unhappy in any way. Still, Foggy can’t quite bear to leave him like this. “Hey, are you _sure_ you don’t want to come spend Christmas with me? My parents would love to have you, I swear.”

Matt’s fingers still on a pair of boxers. (He folds his boxers.) “I’m sure they would,” he says, with a bitter smile.

“Hey. No. Come on. I told them you were great,” Foggy says. He knows Matt thinks Foggy’s _parents_ think Matt’s corrupting their precious baby, but that’s just because Matt thinks the worst of himself whenever possible and assumes everyone else does too. “And they know the deal. They’ve _known_ the deal.”

“Thanks, Foggy, but I’m fine, really,” Matt says, and gives the boxers another sharp fold.

Still Foggy lingers. “What are you gonna do?”

“There’s midnight mass, you heathen. I can still go to church.” Matt’s smile is entirely unconvincing.

“That’s _one day_. It’s a four week break!”

“Foggy…”

“Text me,” Foggy says, “or, or call me. We’ll hang out. I’m only a subway ride away. No transfers, even.”

Matt smiles again, and this one’s a little more real. “Okay.”

Foggy turns towards the door, then turns back and envelops Matt in a hug. The weight of his bags makes him swing forward too hard and Matt staggers back for a couple of steps before grabbing onto Foggy to regain his balance.

“Merry Christmas, Matty,” Foggy says, glad Matt can’t see how red his face has probably gone.

Matt’s arms tighten around him, and for a minute Foggy feels an itch in his shoulder blades, a faint but persistent tingling.

“Merry Christmas, Foggy.”

*

_February_

A girl is attacked on campus on Valentine’s Day. Her attacker is found at dawn, gagged and tied to the statue of Plato in front of Low Library, shivering after being out in the cold all night. It’s been one of the coldest winters on record.

When Foggy reads the article to Matt, Matt shrugs mildly and says, “It sounds like he got what he deserved.”

*

_April_

So the problem is that Foggy might be, sort of, just a scootch, a teeny bit in total and complete and overwhelming love with Matt.

Really, no one could blame him. Matt’s gorgeous and brilliant and weirdly noble, and now that Foggy’s managed to chisel his way past that standoffish and self-loathing shell to the chewy center inside, he knows that Matt’s _also_ an utter goober who laughs way too hard at his own godawful jokes and quotes Thurgood Marshall with hilarious fervency and will never not pet a cat if he happens to come across one.

And sometimes, when they’re alone in their room and Matt’s got his glasses off, he’ll smile in Foggy’s direction with his eyes all soft and crinkly, and Foggy feels like he could fly.

On paper this is a good thing, because on _paper_ Matt is Foggy’s husband, and love makes a marriage, as the campus GSA and a throw pillow on Foggy’s mom’s couch say. But Matt is straight as a goddamn _arrow_ , as he made very clear to Foggy immediately upon meeting him. Plus, as closed off as he can be, he’s effortlessly charming when he feels like it. Girls practically fall at his feet, and Matt’s clearly not immune to their interest.

And still, all of that would be fine, if Matt didn’t sometimes make Foggy feel like maybe, _maybe_ …

Like the night they’re staggering home from a party that Foggy dragged Matt to because man cannot live on textbooks alone, Matt’s arm looped through Foggy’s and his cane skittering erratically over the sidewalk. He’s pushed right up against Foggy’s side, and every time he squirms closer he throws Foggy off-balance and threatens to send the whole operation horizontal.

“Watch it, Clingy McClingerson,” Foggy warns, giving Matt a gentle nudge in the side with his elbow. “You’re gonna knock me off my feet.” Ain’t that the truth.

“’M cold,” Matt says, which, fair, they’d forgone jackets because it was finally warm out during the day, but now that the sun’s gone down that’s starting to feel like a mistake. Still, it doesn’t really excuse Matt _rubbing his cheek_ against the side of Foggy’s _head_. “You’re warm.”

Foggy leans away a little, because this cannot be good for his heart. “Shouldn’t all that tequila be keeping you warm?”

Matt makes a hilarious face. Wow, he is _drunk_. “I can still taste it. I hate tequila. Stupid cacti.”

“Don’t get too indignant and manifest on me,” Foggy warns him. “This bod is plenty hot without you scorching it all down the right side.”

“I would never,” Matt says, looking shocked. “Foggy, I would never hurt you.”

Foggy chuckles. “I know, Matty. It was a joke.”

Matt’s face goes all crinkle-happy at the nickname, smile lines curving out from behind his glasses, and Foggy has to look away quickly and change the subject before he does something stupid and, like, tries to propose to his husband of the past eight months.

“How come I’ve still never manifested?” he asks. “It seems unfair. You do it all the time.” That’s an exaggeration, but he has seen Matt manifest four or five times now, ticked off over some douchebag being ableist or a particularly awful news story. He wouldn’t be surprised if Matt’s manifested more times than that since they met; he always seems so guilty and ashamed when he does it that Foggy suspects he tries to hide it.

As if anything could change how Foggy feels about Matt.

Matt’s happy face is gone, which was Foggy’s goal but now he just feels like a dick. “I try not to,” he says.

Foggy nudges him again. “Hey, come on, it’s not that bad. The horns are kind of cool-looking. I can’t do anything neat.”

Matt stops short, and Foggy nearly topples over again. Okay, so he’s pretty drunk too. “That’s not true.”

“Matt. This isn’t a pity party,” Foggy says. “I just don’t have any superpowers, that’s all.”

“You don’t need them,” Matt insists. “Foggy...Foggy, you do _everything_. Everything important.”

Foggy feels his cheeks heat up, but he wills his voice to stay calm and friendly. “Okay, buddy, you are _pickled_. Let’s get home.”

But when he tries to move them along, Matt stops him again, hands on his shoulders. “You don’t _need_ to manifest,” he says. “You don’t...no one sees you, Foggy. No one really _looks_ at you.”

“ _You_ don’t look at me,” Foggy points out, before he can stop himself, even though with his eyes hidden behind the glasses Matt looks for all the world like he’s staring straight into Foggy’s soul.

“I wish I could,” Matt says, very soft. “I don’t understand how everyone doesn’t...if they paid attention, they’d see it in a heartbeat, Foggy. What you are.” He leans in, until his forehead is nearly touching Foggy’s. “You’re so _good_ , Foggy. I don’t deserve…”

Foggy’s breath catches in his throat.

Matt stops. Shakes his head slightly. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

...Oh.

Matt straightens up. “Which way is the dorm?”

Foggy bites back a sigh and tucks Matt’s hand back into the crook of his elbow. “This way. Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll get you home.”

*

_July_

Matt politely but firmly refuses Foggy’s offer to come stay with the Nelsons over the summer, even though he’s slightly homeless since the orphanage can’t take Matt in now that he’s over eighteen, and rent in the city is astronomical. Instead, he manages to wheedle the financial aid office into cutting him a deal on a single room on campus during break.

“Don’t abandon me for your cozy solitude next year,” Foggy warns as he helps Matt move his stuff.

Matt looks stunned, and says “Of _course_ not!” with such fervor that Foggy feels warm when he thinks about it for _days_.

Columbia’s not far from Hell’s Kitchen, though, and when Foggy’s not helping out at the store, he and Matt are hanging out - enjoying the shorter lines at the Hungarian Pastry Shop, getting lost in Central Park, sitting in the back of late-run movies so that Foggy can quietly narrate.

He’s a little worried that Matt’s clumsier without someone to guide him, though. He feels guilty even thinking it - after all, Matt got by for nine years without Foggy at his elbow. But Matt shows up a few times with bruises on his face that he apparently collected tripping or walking into things; split lips, black eyes, knuckles knocked raw against walls. It’s concerning.

“I’m _fine_ , Foggy,” he always says with a smile when Foggy asks, and Foggy does his best to ignore the prickle in his shoulder blades and how badly he wants to put his fingers on Matt’s hurts.

*

_September_

Their room is even smaller this year, in an oddly-shaped out-of-the-way annex in the oldest dorm on campus. But Matt’s there, so it’s home.

The weird campus vigilante was way more active over the summer, apparently, and even spread out beyond Morningside Heights, moving up and down the west side. The _Spec’s_ even given him a name: “Daredevil.” It’s beyond stupid. Foggy has no love in his heart for the lowlifes the guy beats up, but still - he’s a criminal, not a beloved circus stuntman.

Marci from Foggy’s comp lit class last year is in his stats class this year, and actually seems suddenly receptive to his flirting, so _that’s_ awesome, even if Matt doesn’t seem to like her that much.

So yeah, it’s a mixed bag, but overall sophomore year is shaping up to be pretty great. Even with the whole pathetic unrequited love thing going on. Matt’s not even manifesting as much as he used to.

When he does, though, it’s pretty memorable.

It starts when seven pledges to one of the frats end up in the hospital with severe alcohol poisoning. The _Spectator_ runs an op-ed suggesting that the university abolish Greek life entirely, linking the system not just to hazing but to nepotism, and the widespread cover-up of sexual assault.

The fraternities and sororities are _livid_ ; their rich legacy parents are even angrier. They start calling for more university oversight of student publications. The students point out their First Amendment rights. Stories of violent hazing and spiked drinks start to break, not just in the Spec but on non-university-affiliated sites. The _Spec_ faculty advisor steps down and there’s a protest on the steps of Low Library that shuts classes down for an afternoon. Meanwhile, the hazing gets more aggressive, as if the frats and sororities want to make sure their new pledges can stand up to the same kind of pressure they’re currently under. Students take sides, and actual _fist fights_ break out on more than a few occasions.

Foggy suspects Matt would be right in the thick of those fist fights, if he could be. He’s got a chip on his shoulder about rich legacies to begin with, and Foggy’s overheard enough shitty Helen Keller jokes from frat bros to be optimistic that Matt hasn’t heard the same, and worse. Not to mention they both believe in free speech, and _not_ in having the university scold the paper for printing controversial op-eds like it’s a naughty child. Plus, they both know girls who say they barely made it home after drinking something of unknown provenance out of a red Solo cup in a frat house basement.

But where Foggy is satisfied, say, calling Jason Huntington a fuckwit to his face when he starts mouthing off in their Media and Politics seminar, and getting kicked out of class for refusing to apologize, Matt clenches his fists and squares his shoulders every time it comes up, like he’s about to make like his dad and step into the ring.

And then a pledge dies.

Foggy reads the story off the _New York Times_ website out loud to Matt, pushing down the gorge rising in his throat. It’s sheer negligence - the frat avoided taking the kid to the hospital because they were already under such scrutiny they didn’t want to make it worse.

He wasn’t even eighteen yet.

Foggy doesn’t look at Matt the whole time he’s reading, and maybe that’s a mistake, because by the time he smells the sulfur it’s too late. Matt shoves back from his desk so hard Foggy hears something splinter, and manifests with a shockwave Foggy prays only he can feel.

“Matt,” Foggy says as he stands up, somewhere on the edge of soothing and warning. Their neighbors will _definitely_ be able to smell the sulfur if Matt stays like this for too long. Plus, manifested Matt tends to break things, though never anything of Foggy’s.

More than anything else, though, Foggy just hates seeing Matt this upset.

“They _murdered_ him,” Matt snarls. His features don’t actually change that much when he manifests, except for the addition of horns, but he’s nearly unrecognizable with his face so twisted in fury.

“Matt, I’m sure they didn’t mean…” Foggy says, and then trails off, because he doesn’t want to defend these assholes.

“I should have stopped - someone should have _stopped_ them,” Matt says. He’s hunched over, fists clenching and unclenching, tail lashing the air like an angry cat’s. Heat ripples over him, hazing and blurring the air around him.

Foggy takes a couple careful steps forward. “What were you gonna do?” he asks. “We _will_ stop them, Matt. After this? The whole university’s gonna mobilize, we’ll write to the administration, we’ll go to the protests if you want. They’ll stop the hazing.”

Matt shakes his head. “I can’t...I need to...they can’t just…”

“They _will_ , Matt.” Foggy takes another step forward and puts his hand on Matt’s arm. Matt flinches but doesn’t pull back. He’s hot through his sleeve and trembling finely.

“Matt,” Foggy says again.

“I don’t…”

“ _Matt_.” Foggy puts his other hand on Matt’s cheek. He can’t believe how hot Matt’s skin is, hotter than any normal human’s would ever be, but it doesn’t hurt his palm. “Come on, buddy. Breathe.”

Matt doesn’t have his glasses on - he rarely wears them anymore when it’s just the two of them - and so Foggy sees it when he closes his eyes, when he takes a hitching breath in. “I...Foggy.”

“In and out, Matty. Come on.” Foggy slides his thumb over Matt’s cheekbone, just a little.

Matt leans in and rests his forehead against Foggy’s, and it’s only the fact that he’s trying to get Matt to remember to breathe that keeps Foggy doing the same. He feels Matt’s breath hot against his face as it matches the rhythm of Foggy’s breathing, as the scent of sulfur fades from around them and the horns pressed against Foggy’s brow give way to soft skin.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says finally, without stepping back.

“You don’t have to be.” Foggy knows he should move, should take his hand from Matt’s face, but he can’t quite make himself do it. “It’s what you are. I just…” _Can’t bear to see you hurting._ “...don’t want anyone to find out.”

“Foggy,” Matt says, and _now_ he pulls back, but he doesn’t go far. One hand comes up, his thumb skating across Foggy’s forehead. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Sometimes when I manifest it burns…”

“No,” Foggy says, leaning into Matt’s touch because he is so, so very weak. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

Matt’s hand slides back across Foggy’s forehead and tangles in his hair. There’s so much green in his eyes when he’s up close like this, and something hungry in his expression. “Foggy,” he says again, and Foggy’s heartbeat ratchets up at what his stupid brain tells him is a reverent note.

And then Matt steps away. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and feels for the chair he knocked over. “I’ll try to control myself better in the future.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, nodding even though he knows Matt can’t see it, and all he can think is, _me too._

*

_October_

Daredevil, the weird campus vigilante, doesn't seem to like fraternities any more than Matt does. The frat in question has lawyered up and the administration’s investigation into their activities has stalled. There are rumors that some of the higher ups at the university have been paid off; after all, if the sons of some of the richest men in the country are indicted for manslaughter, there go their bright futures.

But everyone knows who was involved. And those same students start reporting a sense of being followed at night, or seeing a figure in black stalking them out of the corners of their eyes. Some of them claim they confronted Daredevil and chased him off, or even fought him, but Foggy suspects those particular stories are...embellished, to say the least.

Or maybe Daredevil’s just got a quota to hit by year’s end, because it’s not just the frats. Pursesnatchers, rapists, carjackers - the news is suddenly full of stories about criminals Daredevil’s apprehended. Half of Foggy’s classes are taken over with debates about the ethics of vigilantism. And it seems like everyone in Morningside Heights has a Daredevil sighting to share.

Everyone except Foggy, that is.

Not that he cares. He’s more worried about Matt. They’re taking a similar class load, but Matt’s always studying frantically. At least, Foggy assumes that’s why he’s always in the library, but maybe he’s just passing out in a study carrel, because he certainly doesn’t seem to be sleeping well at night, judging by the deep shadows under his eyes and how hard it is to wake him up when morning finally comes. He’s exhausted and distracted - and clumsy because of it, if the bruises Foggy spots on his ribcage when he changes are any indication.

Briefly, Foggy wonders if Matt might be secretly dating someone who’s keeping him up...but no, Matt would have told him. Matt’s archaic nobility would keep him from getting into something serious when he’s married, even if it is a platonic marriage that neither of them asked for.

Also, if Matt was getting laid on the regular, he probably wouldn’t look so damn _miserable_ all the time.

Foggy tries. He brings Matt coffee and snacks and sneaks his favorite fleece blanket onto Matt’s bed, the one Matt pets like a cat when they’re watching movies on Foggy’s laptop. He unsubtly reminds Matt that he’s here if there’s anything Matt needs to talk about, and oh yeah, did Matt know the university offers counseling services? He tries to be patient.

He’s not sure what’s going on with Matt, but whatever it is, Foggy will be there for him.

*

_November_

In retrospect, Foggy can’t believe how stupid he’s been.

He goes to a party - _not_ a frat party, it’s the cast party for a theater department production, at someone’s shitty apartment about ten blocks north of campus. His theater kid days are behind him, in high school, but he’s friends with a bunch of the actors, so he gets an invite. Matt stubbornly resists all of Foggy’s attempts to wheedle him into taking a study break, so Foggy’s flying solo tonight.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t really enjoy himself. Either way, he winds up leaving early and walking home. He’s not worried about being out by himself after dark; it may be New York City, but Morningside Heights is safer than Hell’s Kitchen ever was, and he could always handle himself in the latter.

Which is why he’s so surprised when he hears the scream.

He’s also surprised when he runs _towards_ it, and not away. It came from a dark little side street heading towards Riverside Park, and when he turns onto it he sees the source of the scream, trying to pull her wrist out of the grip of a man with a knife in his other hand.

“Hey!” Foggy shouts. “Leave her alone!”

They both turn to look at him and he abruptly realizes he has no idea what he’s doing.

“Man, get the fuck out of here,” the assailant says.

The woman uses his momentary distraction to kick him in the knee and wrench her arm out of his grasp. “Shit! You fucking bitch!” he snaps. Grabbing her again, he throws her to the ground, making her gasp in pain.

Foggy’s moving closer before he realizes it, trying to get between the woman and her attacker. “I said _leave her alone!_ ”

The attacker rounds on him, knife raised, and Foggy belatedly wonders if there might not have been a more strategic way to handle this. “Listen, asshole, you don't want to fuck with me…” the attacker starts. Foggy's heart thumps hard.

And a figure in black comes flying in from out of fucking _nowhere_ to kick the attacker in the head.

“Holy shit!” Foggy says, jumping back and nearly stumbling over the woman. He bends to help her up, eyes fixed on the fight in front of him, but he does at least remember to ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding equally distracted, and then, “Oh my God, that's _Daredevil_.”

Foggy stares, even as he and the woman stumble back out of range, clutching each other. So this is Daredevil. Honestly, he's moving too fast for Foggy to get much of a look at him, dancing away from the outstretched knife, flipping out of reach and back again. He's wearing all black and some kind of ninja-looking mask tied around the upper part of his head, hiding his eyes. Foggy wonders how he manages to see through it.

The attacker charges into Daredevil, who grunts, then flips the attacker over his shoulder. He hits the pavement so hard Foggy winces. Daredevil punches him again when he tries to rise and that's it, the fight’s over.

Foggy lets out a breath. “Holy shit,” he says again.

“Thank you,” says the woman, and Foggy belatedly remembers to say it too. “Are you okay?”

Daredevil looks at them and gives a short nod. He’s hunched over, though, a hand clapped to his side, and when he turns slightly the light from the streetlamp picks up a wet shine on his fingers.

“Shit, did he get you? Are you bleeding?” Foggy asks, taking a few steps closer. Daredevil takes a step back, winces, and stops. Foggy peers more closely at his face, trying to gauge how much pain he’s in from his expression. He can’t see much, just a mouth and chin.

A very _familiar_ mouth and chin.

Below the tang of his own terrified sweat, Foggy can smell the barest hint of sulfur.

“No,” he says. “No. You’re not…you can’t be...”

The way Daredevil cringes gives it away.

“Do you need to go to the hospital? Mr…Daredevil? Sir?” the woman asks, interrupting the panic attack Foggy is about to have.

Daredevil shakes his head. Foggy takes a deep breath and puts the question of who’s under the mask aside for the moment. “Do _you_ need to go to the hospital?” he asks the woman. “He pushed you pretty hard.”

“I don’t think so,” she says, rubbing at her wrist. “We should call the police, though. I am _definitely_ pressing charges.” She glares at her unconscious attacker.

“I should give them a statement too,” Foggy says. “Do you want me to stay with you? Is that okay?”

She nods. “Yes. Yes, it’s...thank you.”

“Cool. And you.” Foggy turns back to Daredevil, who stiffens. Foggy suspects if the victims had been anyone else, Daredevil would have already melted back into the night. “Are you sure you’re not too injured to get home? _Wherever_ that may be.”

Maybe Foggy’s gone insane, maybe Matt’s sitting in their dorm room, quietly studying Romance poetry and drinking tea, maybe this whole evening’s been a hallucination…

Daredevil pauses, then nods.

“Right,” Foggy says. “Well. Thanks.”

He turns his back on Daredevil and takes out his phone to dial 911. His hands are shaking, and he scowls as he tries to steady them. He doesn’t have time for this. Someone needs his help.

He’ll deal with everything else later.

*

Giving his statement to the police and making sure the woman - Lisa, her name turns out to be - gets home safely takes a few hours. Foggy’s exhausted by the time he makes it back to the dorm. All he wants is to glance over at Matt, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, and realize that his wild speculations are just that before passing out.

But Matt’s awake when he gets back, and the guilty, furtive look he shoots Foggy’s way dashes Foggy’s hopes immediately.

There’s a long silence where Foggy contemplates just not saying anything at all. Maybe he can swallow the fury down far enough that he won’t choke on it. Maybe, if he ignores this, they can pretend that nothing’s changed.

But ignoring things has never been Foggy’s strong suit.

“How’s your side?” he asks finally.

At least Matt doesn’t try to lie. “Fine,” he says. “It was shallow. Just needed a light bandage.”

“Let me see.”

Matt puts down his book and lifts his shirt high enough to show Foggy the bandage taped to his side, bright white against his skin. He’s speckled with bruises around it, both new and familiar ones. Foggy can’t believe he thought Matt was just walking into things.

He can’t believe he thought he and Matt were friends.

“How were you planning on explaining that one?” Foggy asks as Matt drops his shirt down again.

“I don’t usually get cut,” Matt says. “I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t been distracted because you were there.”

“Wait, how is this _my_ fault?” Foggy asks, and Matt shrinks back.

“I didn’t...that’s not what I meant.”

Foggy rakes his hands through his hair. He can't deal with Matt's puppy dog eyes right now. “Just tell me one thing, Matt,” he says. “Why would you pretend to be blind?”

Matt looks as shocked and wounded as if Foggy had slapped him. “I didn't,” he says. “I am, I am blind.”

And he tells Foggy. He tells him about how the accident gave him a world bathed in Hellfire, and about Stick giving him the weapons to navigate it. He tells him about hearing cries for help, and being unable to ignore them. He tells him about the fury that boils under his skin at injustice, the need to do _something_ , anything to stop it.

“So you just...manifest, and beat people up?” Foggy asks, even though Matt wasn’t manifested when he saved Foggy and Lisa earlier.

“No,” Matt says. “If I can...if I can _help_ someone, if I can _do_ something, I can keep from manifesting. I can just…” He spreads his hands. “I can help. Just me.” He pauses. “Usually.”

 _Help._ He’s attacking people in the street and he calls it _help_. “You say Stick had the senses too?” Foggy asks, because he can’t deal with Matt’s broken personal thesaurus right now - _or_ the implication that sometimes he _does_ manifest in front of other people. Matt nods. “But before, last year...you said the blindness wasn’t a demon thing. Was that just another lie?”

Matt cringes again. “No,” he says. “No, the _senses_ are a demon thing. That’s what Stick said, at least. He said we were given heightened senses so that we could detect sin, and punish it. They aren’t supposed to kick in until we’re eighteen, until we know what we are, but the accident probably triggered mine early. I guess demons who aren’t blind have heightened vision too. I don’t really know. I’ve never met one.” He shrugs, a little awkwardly. “The blindness...that was just a coincidence. Or not a coincidence, really, because me being blind is why Stick sought me out, but demon as a rule aren’t blind. I don’t think.”

“ _Such_ bullshit that you get superpowers and I don’t,” Foggy mutters, turning away. He’s been pacing since Matt started explaining. “God, you must have thought I was so _stupid_. I _was_ so stupid. They called you fucking Daredevil, for god’s sake!”

“No,” Matt says urgently. “No, Foggy, you’re not stupid, I never thought…”

“Were you ever planning to tell me?” Foggy asks abruptly, and Matt goes very silent. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Foggy…”

“ _No_ , Matt!” Foggy snaps. “We’re _married!_ I know you didn’t want it, or _me_ , you made that _very clear_ from day one - ”

“What?”

“ - but I didn’t ask for this either, and I’m stuck with you for life! Even if you get arrested. Even if people find out what you are, because then they’ll find out what _I_ am, and you _know_ that’s forbidden!”

“I _have_ to do this, Foggy!” Matt protests. “I don’t have a _choice!_ I’m a demon, I’m _supposed_ to punish the guilty, I can _hear_ them and I _know_ \- ”

“By being a vigilante?” Foggy asks. “Is that what the crazy old man who broke the rules by telling you early and then _abandoned_ you told you? To break the _law_ and put your _life_ in danger?”

“I was careful - ” Matt starts.

“You got _stabbed_ tonight, Matt! How is that careful?” Foggy turns away from Matt, pitiful and pleading on the bed, turns away from the prickle in his fingers and his shoulder blades, and storms over to their shared closet. He yanks out his duffel bag and starts shoving things in it, somewhat at random - underwear, shirts, books, his headphones.

“What are you doing?” Matt asks.

“What, you can’t _sense_ it?” Foggy snaps. “I’m packing, Matt. I’m going to stay with my parents. I can commute to classes, people do it all the time.”

“For how long?” Matt’s voice is plaintive. Foggy steels himself against it.

“I really don’t know,” he says. He shoves his laptop into his duffel and zips it shut. He has no idea what he’s even put in there, but he’ll figure it out later. Right now he needs to get away from Matt before he socks him in the jaw. Or forgives him entirely.

“Okay,” says Matt. Not _wait_ or _stop_ or _please don’t go_. Just _okay_.

Fine.

Foggy forces himself not to look at Matt as he grabs his coat and shoves his arms into it. If Matt doesn’t care, neither does he. At least, that’s what he’ll tell himself until he believes it.

As he slams the door behind him, it kind of sounds like Matt’s crying, but that can’t be right. He’s a _demon_ and a _vigilante_ and he _lied_. That’s not the kind of person who’d cry over a broken friendship.

Not the way Foggy is.

*

Foggy sneaks into the house so quietly his parents don’t realize he’s there until he stumbles out of his room the next morning, red-eyed and sleep-deprived, to drown his sorrows in a cup of coffee. They’re curious, of course - not to mention worried - but all he’ll say is that he and Matt had a fight, he doesn’t want to talk about, leave him alone, _please?_

They do the exchanging-worried-glances-over-his-head parent thing, but they do leave him alone, for which Foggy is grateful.

It’s Saturday, so Foggy has forty-eight hours before he has to face Matt again - they’ve got a Monday morning class together. He spends most of the weekend in his pajamas, drifting from his bedroom to the kitchen and back to his bedroom and speaking to his family as little as possible. He knows he’ll snap at them if he tries to make conversation, and after all, none of this is their fault.

He tells himself he’s being stupid, feeling this betrayed. Matt didn’t ask for this marriage any more than Foggy did. He even had the courtesy to tell Foggy how disinterested he was the minute they met. If Foggy believed that they were friends - if he believed, somehow, foolishly, pathetically, that they could someday be something _more_ than friends - well, that was _Foggy_ lying, not Matt.

That doesn’t change the fact that he’s pretty sure this wouldn’t hurt nearly as much if he wasn’t still in love with Matt, even after everything.

And God, isn’t he owed _something?_ He’s never lied to Matt, never kept a secret from him - except the one, and is it even a secret, if Matt can sense so much? He’s been there for him every time he manifested, every time Matt got lost wallowing in his own self-loathing and depression, every time some jackass treated Matt like a punchline or a helpless child.

He’s not asking for Matt to fall for him. He knows that’s impossible. But a little trust would’ve been nice.

And what if Matt gets caught? Normal humans aren’t equipped to deal with what they are, and Matt’s pretty scary-looking when he manifests, at least to someone unprepared to see a demon. What if some cop freaks out and shoots him? What if he ends up in a lab? All Foggy knows is that they’re not supposed to reveal themselves to mortals if they can help it; would the Powers intervene if Matt got caught, or would they leave him to his fate? Would they step in and dole out their own punishment? Would Foggy share it, for not keeping his demon in line?

 _His_ demon. Ha. As if Matt was ever his.

He’s dreading having to face Matt on Monday morning, but when Matt comes into the lecture hall he just pauses, pinpoints Foggy by his smell or his heartbeat or _whatever_ , and sits as far away from him as he can get.

The guy behind Foggy leans forward. “Whoa, trouble in paradise. You and Murdock break up or what?”

“Shut up, Brad,” Foggy says, and tries not to notice that Matt looks drained and miserable.

He’s so busy not noticing, in fact, that he doesn’t hear a word the professor says all period.

A week goes by like that - the worst week of Foggy’s life. He and Matt have two classes together, and every time Foggy sees Matt sitting hunched and tragic on the other side of the lecture hall, he wants to cry or throw up or - and he’s ashamed of himself for it, so ashamed - wrap his arms around Matt and tell him it’s okay, everything’s okay, can Foggy please come home now?

But no. Moving out may have been Foggy’s choice, but lying and breaking the law was _Matt’s_ choice, and he never even _tries_ to apologize. Never even turns his head towards Foggy.

Foggy knows he has to go back to living with Matt eventually - that’s the whole _point_ of their so-called marriage, after all, and the longer he stays away, the more likely it is that the Powers will intervene. Foggy has no idea what such intervention would consist of, but he knows he doesn’t want to find out.

But he can’t bear to be around Matt right now. So he keeps his gaze pointed forward, and ignores his curious classmates, and doesn’t take a single note.

By Friday he can’t put it off any longer, though - he needs to stop by the dorm. He’s out of clean clothes, and even though he can wash what he’s got at home, he can’t just keep rotating through the same four shirts. Plus, he doesn’t have all the books he needs for the papers he’s got coming due, and he can’t deal with failing his classes on top of nursing a broken heart.

He knows Matt’s got an evening class, so he dawdles in the student center until his own last class is down, waiting until he knows for sure Matt won’t be home before he makes the attempt. He’s too tired at this point to even be mad that he has to skulk around his own dorm room like _he’s_ the one who’s done something wrong.

When he reaches their door he’s surprised to hear Matt’s voice on the other side, along with someone else’s he doesn’t recognize. Matt barely talks to anyone but him - although really, Foggy doesn’t know _that_ for sure any more than he knows anything else about Matt.

He hesitates, but Matt must already know that Foggy’s here, and Foggy’s not about to slink away with his tail between his legs when he hasn’t done anything wrong. He unlocks the door.

There’s an old man in dark glasses standing in front of Foggy’s desk. He and Matt are glowering at each other, and Matt’s lip is bleeding.

And Matt’s in his black outfit.

“ _This_ is him?” the old man asks, jerking his thumb at Foggy.

Matt looks pained. “Close the door, please, Foggy.”

Foggy swallows down the automatic, childish instinct to refuse, and does as Matt asks, squinting at the old man. Matt’s only ever mentioned knowing one old blind guy.

“You’re Stick, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Well, your angel’s not a _complete_ idiot, Matty,” Stick says. Foggy must react in some way he can sense, because he snorts and says, “Yes, I know what you are. You stink of Heaven.”

“Shut up,” Matt snaps in Stick’s direction, then turns to Foggy. “Foggy, I’m sorry about this. I never expected him to show up here.”

“Please. You knew I’d come for you eventually,” Stick says.

Foggy doesn’t like the sound of that at _all_. “Come for him for what?”

“Foggy…” Matt starts to say warningly, then stops and gets that guilty look on his face again. “Sorry. I just...I don't want him mixed up in your bullshit,” he says, turning back to Stick.

“Would that be the same bullshit as _your_ bullshit?” Foggy asks.

Stick laughs. “Old ball and chain doesn't approve of how you spend your nights, huh, Matty?” he asks. “And no, Feathers, it's not the same bullshit. Mine’s not completely pointless, for starters.”

“Trust you to think that _helping people_ is pointless,” Matt mutters.

“What does he want you to do?” Foggy asks Matt, ignoring Stick. He may still be mad at Matt, but he has _zero_ interest in talking to the asshole who abandoned him. He also doesn't particularly like being called “Feathers,” whatever that's supposed to mean - and he _hates_ that Stick calls Matt “Matty.”

“It...don't worry about it,” Matt says, which is hardly reassuring. “It'll be fine. I'll...it'll be fine, Foggy.”

“That didn't answer my question.”

“There's a cult,” Stick says, apparently as fed up with Matt's hemming and hawing as Foggy is. “Ninjas. A few hundred years ago some dumbass angel told them about all of us, and of course they got everything ass backwards and now they worship one of the lesser archdemons. And by worship, I mean human sacrifice, dark rituals to prepare the Earth for his glorious ascendency, all that crap. They’re called the Hand.”

Demon-worshipping ninja cults. Well, now Foggy’s heard it all. “What do you want Matt to do?” he asks.

“Help me kill them all,” Stick says flatly.

Foggy blanches. Stick sounds both absolutely determined and completely untroubled by the idea of wholesale murder.

Thankfully, Matt is shaking his head. “I said I’d help you _stop_ them,” he says. “But I won’t kill, and I won’t allow you to do so in my city.”

Stick snorts. “ _Your_ city. You’ve gotten real cocky since I left, kid.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s changed.” From the tense way Matt’s holding himself, Foggy suspects he’s about ten seconds from manifesting. He resists the urge to try to soothe Matt, even though if Matt manifests Stick probably will, and the last thing Foggy needs is two angry, manifested demons with black belts in his dorm room.

“Yeah, well, knocking the Hand’s heads together like the muggers and frat boys you’ve been dealing with isn’t going to stop them,” Stick says. “Or would you rather leave them to their human sacrifice? And just wait until they sniff this one out.” He jerks his chin at Foggy. “You and me they’d just kill for parts, but an angel? Oh, they could torture him for _weeks_.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Matt says, moving to stand between Stick and Foggy, like Stick’s going to get started on the torturing _for_ the Hand.

“...For parts?” Foggy asks, even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

“They’re not demons. They can’t sense the things we can,” Stick explains. “But they figured out a way to use pieces of us to help them along. Ears for hearing. Tongues for taste. Too bad for them me and Matty’s eyes won’t do them any good.” Foggy can’t help his shudder. “Yeah, Feathers. Nasty stuff. So kiss your hubby goodbye and promise him a romp in the hay when the conquering hero returns. We gotta _go_.”

Foggy feels his face heat up, but at least Matt’s turning red too. “Shut up,” he tells Stick again, then tugs gently on Foggy’s elbow to pull him a few steps away from Stick - as if that’ll give them any privacy from someone who can hear butterflies farting across the river in Queens.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Honestly, I had no idea he was ever coming back. I certainly didn’t think he would come _here_.”

“You’re not actually considering going with him?” Foggy asks incredulously.

“I have to,” Matt says, and flinches at Foggy’s snort. “I _do_ , Foggy. I have to - look, he’s right, someone needs to stop the Hand. At _least_ chase them out of the city. And if I go with him, I can keep him from killing anyone.”

“Keep me?” Stick echoes, ignoring that this is clearly supposed to be a private conversation. “Don’t forget who the sensei is here, Matty.”

“That’s the condition,” Matt says, turning his head in Stick’s direction. “No - two conditions. One, you don’t kill anyone, and two, you never come near Foggy again. You want me to help you? That’s the deal.”

Stick chuckles, even as Foggy tries to process that, that Matt would put keeping Stick away from Foggy on the same level as saving lives. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, don’t you, kid? You always did have a hard-on for Heaven,” Stick says, and Matt’s face goes even redder. “All right, deal. You come with me, I’ll leave your little angel food cake here alone.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Foggy snaps, and Stick snorts.

“Don't test me, Feathers,” he says. “Can you even manifest?” Foggy's silent. “That's what I thought. Never met an angel worth shit without manifesting, and most of them think they’re too good to even bother. Come on, Matty.”

“Matt, no,” Foggy says, grabbing Matt’s elbow as he starts to step away. “How do you even know he’s telling the truth?”

“I know,” Matt says, completely unhelpfully.

“And exactly how many of these archdemon-worshipping ninjas are going to be trying to cut your ears off during this little field trip?” Foggy asks. “Listen, Murdock, I’m still pissed as hell at you, but I’m gonna be about fifty times madder if you get yourself killed.” The joke turns his stomach. He’s still furious at Matt, but if Matt dies…

He can’t even think it. It makes panic claw up his spine.

“I won’t,” Matt says, which isn’t super reassuring, given the circumstances.

“Let me come with you,” Foggy says, stupidly, because what is he going to do? “I can...I can cause a distraction, or call the cops, or…”

“No!” Matt snaps, too loud, and softens his voice. “No, I can’t...you need to be here, Foggy. You need to be safe. You need to be something I can come home to.” He slides his hands down to grip Foggy’s. “I know you’re mad, and you have every right to be. I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again. But please...don’t go to your parents’ tonight.” He ducks his head. “I need to know you’ll be here when I get back. Even if you want to yell at me all night, just...please be here.”

For a moment Foggy’s torn between being terrified for Matt, and furious that he would ask a favor at a time like this, and so touched he wants to cry. “Okay,” he says finally. His voice comes out shaky and it’s embarrassing. “I’ll stay the night.”

“Thank you,” Matt says, and then he _utterly stuns_ Foggy by leaning forward and kissing his forehead. Before Foggy can do anything about it, though, Stick snorts and whaps his cane against Foggy’s desk so loudly it makes Foggy jump.

“This is all very precious, but I’d like to reach the Hand before sunrise,” he says. “Come on, Matty. You and Cupid here can whisper all the sweet nothings you want when we’re done.”

Matt straightens up and gives a curt nod. “Right,” he says, and squeezes Foggy’s hands before letting go. “Let’s get this over with.”

And they’re out the window - of _course_ they go out the window - before Foggy can even say goodbye.

*

Foggy spends the next twenty minutes or so having the first panic attack of his life.

Once he can breathe again, he yanks his laptop out of his bag and frantically searches for any information on the Hand. Google has no idea what he’s talking about, though, and no combination of “Hand,” “ninja,” “demons,” or “some asshole named Stick who needs a punch in the face” brings up any relevant results.

It could all just be bullshit. Stick seems like the kind of guy who would lie to Matt to get him to do what he wanted. Hell, he used to beat up on Matt when he was _ten_ , as _training_ , and then completely deserted him when Matt dared to have an emotion at him - he’d _definitely_ lie to get what he wanted.

But Matt clearly believed it. Foggy doesn’t know if Matt’s lie detecting ability works on other demons. He also doesn’t know if it would be better or worse if Stick was telling the truth about the two of them heading off to face an army of dismemberment-happy ninjas. All he knows is that Matt’s in trouble.

All he knows is that angry as he is at Matt, he still can’t bear the thought of him being hurt.

He shoves back from his desk and paces the room. This is _bullshit_. Matt gets super senses and cool demonly features and the ability to detect _lies_ and _sins_ , and Foggy gets nothing.

“Angels are supposed to be about protection and mercy, right?” he says out loud, even though he has no idea if the Powers actually listen to their Elevated minions, or what good it would do him if they did. “Well, Matt needs protection right now, okay, so give me some fucking superpowers already!”

He… _probably_ shouldn’t swear at the Powers.

There’s no response, of course - no helpful visit from the archangel, no glorious shaft of golden light bequeathing super speed and laser vision upon him, not even a divine pat on the back to assure him that it’ll all work out. He resumes his pacing, focusing on Matt. Maybe if he just spends every minute from here until Matt walks in through that door - or, more likely, climbs in through that window - thinking about Matt, it’ll just sort of… _beam_ whatever protection angels are supposed to impart to him. God knows it can’t hurt.

 _Please_ , he thinks. _Please, I know Matt isn’t perfect but he_ tries _to do Your Wills as best as he understands them, he does. Please, please, please let me help him._

He reaches the end of the room, stops, turns - and the vision hits him with blinding speed. _Matt and Stick, approaching Inwood Hill Park at the northernmost tip of Manhattan, the densely wooded part of the park that’s never been landscaped or tamed. The trees are thick with Hand ninjas lying in wait, their hearts stilled so that the demons below can’t pick up on their presence._

And a voice speaks in Foggy’s mind:

_Go._

He races for the door, grabbing his coat as he goes, and hails the first cab he sees when he gets outside. Luckily it's late, and traffic is light. As they fly uptown, he tries to send good vibes Matt's way, protective vibes. _Don’t die. Don’t die. Please, I need you._

When they reach the park, he flings cash at the driver and scrambles out of the cab. Maybe he's picked up some of Matt’s abilities, or maybe the Powers are just looking out for him, because he knows exactly where they are; he can feel Matt’s presence there like a beating heart.

When he draws closer he can hear it too, the sounds of battle. He runs forward through the trees - and nearly trips over a body lying on the ground.

Heart in his throat, he bends to examine it. And yeah, that's definitely a ninja, if the outfit is any indication. Unconscious, but definitely still breathing. Stick didn't kill him. Which means that Matt was still alive to stop him. At least, he was at the time.

He hurries forward, towards the sounds of fighting. The closer he gets, the more bodies he finds, strewn through the underbrush like fallen leaves. He can't believe how many there are. It was just Matt and Stick against them - how could they fight so many? How many marks did these fallen opponents leave on them?

He's running full out now, leaping over roots and unconscious ninjas as he goes - and then he bursts into a clearing and there they are, there's Matt, surrounded and outnumbered, manifested but bleeding in a thousand places. Stick’s at his feet, struggling to rise. Foggy's not sure how Matt's still standing, he's so badly hurt, and as he rushes forward a ninja holding a katana leaps, hurls himself at Matt's unprotected back and Foggy _screams_ -

There’s a rippling in his shoulders, a shockwave of a silent explosion and a burst of golden light - 

\- and Foggy is hovering about two feet off the ground, held aloft by enormous, feathery wings. When he holds his hands in front of his face, they’re glowing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and then cringes. Sacrilegious swearing is probably not appropriate here.

But the wings don’t go anywhere, and Foggy stays suspended in midair. There’s something coursing through him, an energy like wind off the sea or the first untouched snowfall of winter. In the light he casts, the clearing is illuminated: the Hand frozen and wary, Stick looking abjectly terrified.

Matt, fallen to his knees, face turned up towards Foggy like the sun. He’s not wearing his mask and his eyes are wide, his expression rapt. “Foggy,” he says, breathless.

He’s entirely distracted, but the others are moving again, the Hand starting to gather themselves. The ninja with the katana raises it to strike.

Foggy lands beside Matt, standing over him, winds spread. He holds up a hand as the katana comes down. “No,” he says, and the blade bounces back off of nothing, sending the ninja staggering back.

_Protection._

Matt sways suddenly, and in the light still coming from him, Foggy can see how pale he is. He’s hunched, holding one arm gingerly, blood smeared down the side of his face from a still-oozing head wound.

He catches Matt with a gentle hand on his shoulder and concentrates. He’s never done this before, but somehow it’s easy to direct the light, to let it bathe over Matt and sink into his skin until his bones and flesh knit back together, until he can hold himself upright without help.

_Healing._

Foggy looks around, at Stick shaking on the ground and the cowed and wounded Hand. He pauses for just a heartbeat before sending the light washing out over the clearing, bathing everyone else in it as well.

_Mercy._

It’s a lot, and Foggy wobbles on his feet when it’s done. It’s Matt’s hand that steadies _him_ this time, and he realizes Matt’s standing beside him now - still manifested, still with that wondering expression on his face.

Stick pushes himself to his feet as well, leaning on his cane. “Okay, Feath-- uh, Nelson. You made your point. You don't have to, to bring out the flaming sword or anything. I'm going.”

Foggy blinks. Flaming sword? What? He's never manifested before but he's very certain he can't conjure up one of those.

Stick’s taunting words in the dorm come back to him: _Never met an angel worth shit without manifesting._

Or maybe he's never met a manifested angel at all.

It's all Foggy can do not to laugh. “Leave this city,” he says, hoping that he sounds imposing and not ridiculous. “Don’t ever come back. Or _he’ll_ know - ” he nods towards Matt “ - and _I’ll_ be very unhappy.”

He takes Matt’s hand and leads him back out of the park, wings spread wide to deflect any sneak attacks, but neither Stick nor any of the Hand make a move towards them. It seems like the presence of a manifested angel has cowed all of them into submission, at least for the moment.

Foggy could really get used to this.

*

Just before they leave the park, Foggy stops and concentrates, willing his breathing to steady, for the adrenaline surging through him to believe that the threat is over. After a few minutes, the wings and the glow vanish. Matt follows suit, de-manifesting without Foggy having to say anything. The dazed expression stays on his face, though, and he keeps breathing in deep, like he can’t get enough oxygen.

“Sorry I didn’t wait for you back in the dorm,” Foggy says as he holds a hand out to hail a cab, and Matt blinks, then starts laughing - not quite as borderline-hysterical as that time in the bathroom, but close.

He’s still laughing when a cab finally pulls up and they climb in. “Somehow, I think I’ll forgive you,” he manages, and leans his cheek against the back of the seat to beam in Foggy’s direction. It’s a facial expression that’s entirely too much for Foggy, so he keeps his face pointed forward for the rest of the ride, and thinks about the tingling in his shoulders instead of the heat of Matt’s unseeing gaze.

He has superpowers. _Fuck_ yeah.

In their dorm room, he makes sure the door is locked and that there’s nothing breakable within what he thinks his wingspan is. Then he closes his eyes and concentrates.

At first nothing happens. He wiggles his shoulders and thinks about what he saw, about Matt hurting, about Matt _needing_ him - 

_PHWOOM._

He opens his eyes. He can feel the wings behind him, enormous but lighter than air. When he spreads them out they practically fill the room. They’re gleaming white, but when he shifts them under the light, a sheen of gold dances along the shafts of each individual feather.

“This is _so_ cool,” he breathes.

Matt’s doing the weird huffy inhaling thing again. He’s sort of penned into a corner of the room by Foggy’s right wing, and he reaches up and runs a hand along the edge of it, sending a shivery thrill up Foggy’s spine. “They’re so soft,” he whispers.

Suddenly he jerks his hand away like he’s been burned and takes a couple stumbling steps back until he hits the wall. “Sorry,” he says, holding the offending hand to his chest like a poorly-behaved toddler. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to...I didn’t…”

“What? It’s okay,” Foggy says. He cranes his neck, trying to get a good look as he gives the wings an experimental flutter. Papers go flying off their desks. “I wonder if I can really _fly_ fly, or just hover. We need to figure out somewhere I can test that.” He curves one wing forward and reaches across his body with his other hand to touch it. It’s like sinking his fingers into a cloud - not a real cloud, cold and wet, but warm and welcoming, like he imagined clouds felt when he was little. “Ooh, you’re right, they _are_ soft. Wow.”

Matt’s still pinned against the wall, hands pressed flat against it. He’s flushed, and his chest is heaving. “Uh-huh.”

Foggy frowns, and folds the wings back a little. Even worried about Matt, he’s delighted by how easy it is to manipulate the wings, how it’s already second nature, like moving his hands and feet. “What’s wrong?” He gives Matt a gentle prod with one of the wings. “Come on, I have _wings_ , you gotta admit that’s awesome - ”

“ _Don’t - !_ ” Matt gasps, curling away from Foggy, and Foggy realizes he’s trembling.

He snaps the wings back, furled tight against his shoulders. “What? What’s - oh shit, do they hurt to touch or something?” Matt _is_ a demon, after all. Foggy’s touched Matt’s horns before and it didn't hurt _him_ , but maybe wings are different.

Matt makes a helpless little sound, and it takes Foggy a minute to realize it’s a laugh, it sounds so miserable. “No,” he says. “No, they don’t hurt. But I can’t...Foggy, I can’t _touch_ them. I can’t touch _you_.”

“Why not?” Foggy asks, baffled. They’ve touched plenty; Foggy’s been guiding Matt all over the city for a year.

Matt’s expression suggests that Foggy is being an idiot. “I’m a _demon_ , Foggy.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s been well established. So?”

“So I _can’t touch you!_ ” Matt barks, hands curling like claws against the wall. “I was weak and I let myself, I tried to ration it out, but I can’t lie to myself anymore. I mean. Foggy.” He shakes his head. “Look at what you _are_. You’re so...you’re _good_ , and even if being near me didn’t corrupt you, I don’t _deserve_ you. I don’t deserve your friendship, let alone...let alone anything else.”

“I. I don’t.” Foggy shuts his eyes tight for a minute, as if that will help. Nothing Matt’s just said makes any sense. “You’re going to _corrupt_ me?”

“I’m a _demon_.”

“Stop _saying_ that!” Foggy snaps, frustrated.

“It's true.”

“That doesn't make it the answer to every question!” Foggy says. “You also have ten fingers and brown hair and conversational Spanish skills. So _what?_ ”

“You just saw!” Matt says. “You just saw what demons are like, what people who _worship_ demons are like. They're monsters and killers and _evil_.”

“ _You're_ not,” Foggy points out.

“I grow horns and a _tail_ and beat up people in alleys. You grow wings and heal the wounded,” Matt says. “I'm not fit to breathe your _air_. And I _promised_ you.”

“Promised me what?” Foggy asks, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Matt is spouting pure crazytalk at this point, and he's having trouble keeping up.

“That I would never touch you. The day we got...the day we met.” Matt looks sick at the memory.

Foggy stares. “That was because of the demon thing? I thought that was, like, your way of saying ‘no homo.’”

Matt lets out another sickly laugh. “No. No, that would have been...” He hitches a breath. “Inaccurate at best.”

Foggy’s glad he has wings now, because the floor beneath him doesn't feel all that solid right now. “But...but you're _straight_. You've always been _straight!_ ”

Matt shakes his head. “I knew...I knew you were attracted to me,” he admits, with a look on his face like he's just volunteered to step on a land mine. “But Foggy, you deserve so much better.”

Foggy takes a minute to collect his thoughts, because this part feels very important. Matt’s not straight. Matt thinks Foggy deserves better than him. He can't even bother to worry about the humiliating confirmation that Matt has always known how Foggy feels about him, because... “Matt. Are you saying…are you saying that attraction is mutual?”

Matt swallows hard. His nails are going to leave marks on that wall. “I’m saying if we weren’t already married, I probably would’ve proposed to you by now.” His mouth quirks on the end of it, like he’s trying to turn it into a joke but he can’t quite manage it.

For a moment Foggy’s dizzy with the weight of Matt’s confession. “ _Matt_ ,” he breathes when he can speak, and takes a step forward.

Matt shakes his head frantically. “Foggy, I don’t...I don’t want to ruin you.”

“Ruin me? What are you...Jesus Christ, Murdock,” Foggy says, and Matt flinches at the blasphemy. “Do you really think the Powers would have had us get _married_ if we weren’t supposed to _touch_ each other? Do you think they would have had hundreds of previous generations of angels and demons get married?”

He takes a few steps closer to Matt, spreading his wings, boxing him in. Matt’s breathing hard and Foggy can see his Adam’s apple working. “Were you so busy thinking of yourself as damned and sinful that you couldn’t use _logic_ , Matt?” he asks.

“You called me a vigilante,” Matt points out, very low. “You called me a vigilante and a liar and you were _right_ , Foggy. I get angry and I turn into a monster and I beat people up in the street.”

“You punish the guilty. Like you’re supposed to,” Foggy says. “I’m not saying I don’t have any reservations about how you go about it, but we can figure it out, Matt. We can figure it all out.”

“Foggy,” Matt says, and drags in a ragged breath, and Foggy finally realizes what it reminds him of - his little cousins, walking into his grandma’s house when she’s been baking for the holidays, and the way they gulp down the smell as if they can swallow it.

He flutters his wings, just enough to stir the air, and watches Matt’s mouth fall open. “The wings don’t hurt you, do they?”

Matt shakes his head.

“Go ahead,” Foggy says.

Matt licks his lips, then lifts one shaking hand and brushes the tips of his fingers through the feathers of Foggy’s left wing. Foggy shivers.

“They smell so good,” Matt whispers. “You always smell good, Foggy, but now...it’s like spring and wind and sunshine all at once.”

Foggy plucks at Matt’s shirt, uses that grip to pull Matt away from the wall and towards him. Matt comes like he can’t help himself, curving into Foggy, his face pressed hot into the curve of Foggy’s neck and his left arm wrapped around Foggy’s waist. The other hand is still stroking through Foggy’s feathers.

“Hey,” Foggy says softly, hoping Matt can hear him over how loud his heart’s beating right now. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything.” Matt says it so pure Foggy wants to die.

“Manifest.”

Matt pulls back in shock, and would be gone, Foggy’s sure, if he hadn’t kept his grip on Matt’s shirt. “Please,” he adds, and tugs Matt close again. “For me.”

Matt swallows hard and closes his eyes. There’s the familiar shockwave, the familiar burst of sulfur in the air, and Matt’s standing there in horns and a tail and looking miserable.

“Do you see?” he asks. “Do you see why this isn’t - ”

Foggy gathers his wings around Matt, pulling him even closer and making him cut off on a gasp. They’re cocooned in them together, encircled in the soft fresh sweetness of them. Foggy reaches up and cups Matt’s face in his hands, tilts Matt’s face down until he can press a gentle kiss to one horn, then the other.

“I _know_ what you are. _This_ is what you are,” he says. “And if the Powers hadn’t chosen you for me, I would have done it for myself. Every time, Matt.”

Matt’s face crumples, and Foggy has just enough time to wonder if he’s read this all wrong, if he’s said the wrong thing, before Matt’s kissing him. It’s sweet and it’s feverish and it’s exactly Matt, the urgency and the tenderness. Matt’s arms are strong around him, and Foggy pulls him close with everything he has and loses himself in it.

“Foggy,” Matt murmurs against Foggy’s lips, and Foggy kisses him to swallow the way his name sounds on Matt’s tongue when it’s that reverent.

“Don’t you tell me this is wrong,” he tells Matt fiercely, tangling his fingers in Matt’s hair. “Don’t you tell me I don’t deserve this.”

He opens his eyes to watch the way Matt’s smile curves hesitantly into his cheeks. “Well,” he says, “who am I to argue with Heaven?”

Foggy laughs and kisses him again, bright and happy. Despite all his newfound superpowers, he’s pretty sure he loves his ability to make Matt smile the best. “I guess the Powers know what they’re doing.”

“I have some reservations about some of their decisions,” Matt says, ever the pedant. “But this…” He tucks a lock of hair behind Foggy’s ear and leans in. “This I think I could get used to.”

Foggy suspects he’ll _never_ get used to it. He doesn’t want to; he wants every kiss with Matt to be a joyful surprise, no matter how many times it happens, for the rest of their lives.

But he’s willing to risk it.

“Well,” he says, and pulls Matt in again. “Let’s see if I can help with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I like writing Stick so much, I don't even _like_ Stick, that's weird.
> 
> Anyway I figure demons manifest early, easily, and frequently, whereas angels need a stronger initial push (a lot of them never manifest at all, hence Stick never having encountered a manifested angel before) but have more control and are more powerful overall. Foggy's gonna be real smug about that.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] When Your Arms Are Too Weary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9124261) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton), [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal)




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